La Mere
by Flaming Kitten
Summary: We've all heard the story of Quasimodo's freedom from Frollo's cruelty, but what was his life like as a child? How did he survive, locked away in a bell tower? Did anyone besides Frollo care for him? This is the untold tale of the Hunchback of Notre Dame.
1. Prelude

To expand on the summary, this story is my imagining of Quasimodo's childhood because I've always wondered how he managed to survive in a bell tower as a baby. Frollo couldn't have been with him every minute of every day and even if he was, could you imagine him feeding, burping, and changing a baby? Neither can I, so this story is the result. Constructive criticism is very much appreciated, especially since this is my first story. Enjoy.

He had half expected the abomination to burst into flames when the bishop lowered Its misshapen head into the basin of water. When the "child" merely whimpered, it was with equal parts relief and irritation that Frollo released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Relief, because at least now he knew that It wasn't a demon. Irritation, because it seemed that he was indeed stuck with the thing.

" I baptize this child... Quasimodo, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen."

"Amen." he intoned solemnly, though it was all he could do to keep the sneer off his face at the bishop's hesitance over It's name. He had protested over the choice, saying it was a cruelty to brand the child with the moniker of "half-formed", or to put it nicely, "almost- like." He had relented only because with the name came the sealed guarantee that Frollo was following through with his agreement to care for the monstrosity.

The bishop made the sign of the cross over It, and with that, the informal baptism was over. The bishop handed It to Frollo and fixed him with a steady gaze.

"I've made arrangements for the child to stay in a secluded area of the tower so the bells shouldn't disturb him overmuch, but it isn't exactly... ideal for a newborn. I suggest you bring several provisions with you the next time you visit. And as to the child's care itself..."

"I've already given my word to care for the beast!" Frollo snarled.

Did the old fool expect him to slit his wrist in a heathen blood oath?

The bishop's gaze shifted into one of open disapproval.

"So you did, but neither you nor I have the time or the energy it takes to care for an infant. Or were you planning on moving into the bell tower yourself?"

Frollo bit back a retort. The contemptible man had a point.

"Therefore, I suggest you find a nursemaid."

_'No one must know of this!'_ he nearly shouted, but stopped short as his calculating mind began to weigh the pros and cons of the suggestion. On one hand, he risked exposure, but on the other hand, he'd be free to go about his business without having to worry about It. He'd be fulfilling his duty with the absolute minimum amount of contact possible. Yes, that would work out nicely, except for one detail.

"Very well. I'll have someone bring supplies over. As for the nursemaid, I believe you should have the honor of finding her."

"Me?"

"Yes, after all, I have no experience in these matters. I'm sure you could find someone with the proper qualities to fulfill this position. I, of course, will have final say."

The bishop opened his mouth as if to protest, but seemed to think better of it and simply nodded. He took something out of his pocket and handed it to Frollo. It was a thin iron key.

"Take the eastern staircase up to the second floor." With that, the bishop walked away to prepare for morning mass.

Frollo ascended the narrow staircase, holding It away from his body. The stairs led to a dark room lit with only two candles. In the dim light, Frollo could see that the room was filled with old and broken statues. The dismal lighting cast distorted shadows around the room, making the statues appear like grotesque caricatures of their true forms.

_'A fitting place for a monster to sleep.'_ he thought.

On the far side of the room sat an old cot that had been raised and lined with thin blankets. Frollo placed the child in the cot and stood back.

"You had better be worth the trouble." he growled, and without a glance backwards, the judge left.


	2. And So We Go

**I'm sorry for the long wait, I hope y'all enjoy this chapter as much as the first! And remember to drop by the review section to tell me what you think!**

**It is not until you become a mother that**

**your judgment becomes compassion and**

**understanding.**

**-Erma Bombeck**

As he extinguished the last candle, the archdeacon felt a chill creep over him. It was an overcast October morning; the cold sunlight filtered weakly through the stained glass windows, giving the entire cathedral a gloomy atmosphere.

It had been two weeks since Quasimodo's informal baptism. Two whole weeks, and the archdeacon still hadn't found the child a caretaker. He had petitioned several of the nuns but had been met with adamant rejection as soon as they had seen the poor misshapen boy. He had convinced one nun to at least feed and change the baby, but like him and Frollo, she just didn't have the time or energy to take care of a newborn.

He sighed and looked around. Morning mass had just ended; most people had gone home to tend to their daily business, but there were still a few people here and there kneeling in the cathedral's wooden pews deep in prayer. Or half asleep, in the case of the young man sitting next to his father. The archdeacon briefly considered rousing the him, but decided against it and moved on.

As he walked by the various statues, windows, and stone pillars, the archdeacon allowed himself a small smile. Though it was near freezing inside the church, he felt an inner warmth spread through him. He did so love Notre Dame. How could he not? She was gorgeous, with her regal arches and vaulted ceiling. She had to be the very pride of Paris, the jewel of France if he did say so himself.

Just as soon as the warmth had come, it passed. The smile turned into a grimace. To think his Lady had been stained with the blood of an innocent only two weeks ago. The unfortunate woman had been buried in an unmarked grave- she hadn't had any sort of identification on her, and Frollo had had the men accompanying her executed the day after her death.

Sometimes, the judge's hatred for gypsies seemed to border on insanity- it was terrifying. Oh, he knew that the gypsy race was anything but loved in Paris, but Frollo had his sights set on their extermination and the imprisonment of anyone who so much as pitied them. And frankly, there were few people in this city who could stop him. He may have prevented the child's murder, but how many other innocents had the judge sentenced to death for no other reason than his unyielding hatred and twisted sense of "justice?"

The archdeacon was pulled from his dark thoughts by the sound of a whispered prayer.

_Holy Mary, Mother of God,  
>Pray for me,<br>This poor sinner-  
><em>

The voice was husky but feminine, and so filled with sorrow that it almost broke his heart. He stepped off into a small, shadowed alcove where a statue of the Virgin Mary held the infant Jesus. Kneeling before her was a woman, who at the sound of his approach stopped her prayer and turned to face him.

She was tall and thin and looked absolutely exhausted. Dark shadows rested under her watery blue eyes and her pale skin seemed grey in the weak light. Wisps of brown hair escaped from under her cap, adding to her haggard appearance.

"Have I disturbed you Father?"

The archdeacon blinked rapidly and put on another smile.

"Of course not dear child."

The young woman's eyebrows furrowed and she began biting her bottom lip, which looked like it had been bitten clean through several times already. The archdeacon recalled that she had come to the church everyday for awhile now. It was actually a little peculiar- most young women of her age and status attended only on Sundays and the occasional holiday, especially if they were married. What was her name? Something with a J like Janice? No. Janette? Wrong.

"Is there something you need Father?"

Joan! Joan Bellemonte, that was it. Married on her 16th birthday in this very church to a Louis Bellemonte, almost three years ago.

"No." He said quietly and moved closer to her.

"I just happened to overhear your prayer and... are you okay?"

For just a moment, the woman's somber facade seemed to slip, giving lie to the deep sadness within. The next moment, it was back up.

"No I... I just needed to... I can't explain..." she broke off her garbled reply and turned back towards the statue and it occurred to him, he knew why she was there. He had heard from one of the brothers that she had lost her first born child only a few days after its birth. The long, black mourning gown she wore corroborated this tale. The poor dear.

He gently touched her shoulder, drawing her attention back to him.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

Joan's eyes widened.

"How did you-"

Her look of surprise was replaced with a bitter smile.

"Of course you know. It seems all of Paris knows. I can't even walk through the streets without some fool stopping me to offer their condolences. But will that bring my child back, will it give me another?"

Taken aback by the venom in her voice, the archdeacon could think of nothing to say, so he just looked at her. The bitter smile had faded away. Now Joan simply looked tired- old beyond her 19 years. She rubbed her eyes and her whole body seemed to sag.

"It wasn't supposed to be this way. After three years and nothing, finally, finally it was going to be alright."

She caught his eye and said,

"I don't understand any of this. Was it me? Have I sinned in some way? I've prayed here for days and I still don't understand. Why?"

The archdeacon simply intoned, "God's will is mysterious, it is not for us to always comprehend." He hated giving her such an answer, but he didn't know what else to say.

Joan released a humorless chuckle, "Is that so, Father? Then perhaps I should stop coming here, if all I can expect to receive is silence."

She moved to leave, when a thought occurred to the archdeacon.

"May I show you something?"

She pursed her battered lips. "I really must be going Father." She walked out of the alcove and towards the immense wooden doors. A slight feeling of panic arose within him. She was leaving! With very little thought, the archdeacon rushed towards Joan and latched onto her arm. She turned, a look of outrage forming on her face. "Father!"

He loosened his grip. "Please, do not be alarmed, but I really must show you something. It will only take a moment. Please."

Her face softened, only slightly, but he knew she would acquiesce.

"What is it?"

Not letting go of her arm, he began to steer her towards the eastern staircase.

He released her at the top of the stairs so that he could unlock the door and beckon her inside the dim room. With the slightest trace of hesitation, she crossed the threshold.

"What am I supposed to be seeing Father?"

He simply pointed towards the back of the room then proceeded to look for a candle.

Joan's heart nearly burst out of her chest when she saw the small bassinet. She lurched towards it and... had to cover her mouth to keep from crying out when she saw the tiny figure inside.

It was hideous! A shock of red hair, a bulbous wart over one eye, and a pushed in tetrahedron nose- Joan's eyes took all of this in. She rounded on the archdeacon, who had managed to light a solitary candle and hissed, "What devilry is this!"

The archdeacon gave her a mild look as he approached the cradle.

"He, is merely a malformed child, only a few weeks old."

"Where is his mother?"

"With God."

"Why is he here, why not the orphanage?"

"No one else would have him." True, in a sense.

"And you would have me take him."

"No, I would ask that you simply care for him from time to time."

"Bah! You know not what you ask. How could I ever care for the likes of him?"

"You want for a son, and he needs a mother, or at the very least someone who can give him a modicum of care."

She looked uncertain.

"I, I can't."

"It's your choice. All I ask is that you think about it." The archdeacon set the candle down and left Joan and Quasimodo alone.

Joan grasped the side of the bassinet in an attempt to steady herself.

What was she supposed to do? She couldn't possibly take care of this, thing! It was unnatural. But even as she thought this, Joan couldn't help but notice how tiny he was. How his little hands were clenched into fists, how his lips smacked as if feeding. It made her heart swell with affection and her hands clench with anger. It wasn't fair! Why had God seen fit to steal her beautiful boy away from her, yet let this abomination live. It was outrageous!

As if sensing the turmoil within her, the baby stirred and began to cry.

With shaking hands, Joan lifted him out of his bed. Angry tears welled up in her eyes and she screeched,

"This isn't how it's supposed to be! Why are you crying? Do you think it will bring your mother back? It surely won't bring my son back!"

Quasimodo cried louder.

Joan looked at him, this weird parody of a human infant and, inexplicably, began to laugh.

"We are alone, you and I. A broken woman and an ugly baby. We must be a sight to see."

Her laughter took on an edge of hysteria, until finally, it gave way to deep, choking sobs. She sank to the floor and held the baby close.

"I'm sorry. God forgive me, I'm so sorry."

Quasimodo continued to cry.


End file.
